


Wanton Prayers to a Cruel God

by TimmyJaybird



Series: The Awakening [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:08:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimmyJaybird/pseuds/TimmyJaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hound still has much to teach Sansa, of her desires, of control, of a prayer only he knows how to utter against her skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanton Prayers to a Cruel God

Sansa sat in the sun, feeling her dress constricting her every breath. It was hot for an autumn day, a sudden burst of heat like late summer that made her dizzy. She prayed for rain and cool breezes, she had enough heat constantly coiling inside her, she did not need more.

She sat with Lady Margery and her entourage, watching some of the young knights spare. Her brother Loras was among them, in glittering armor of silvers and golds- not his white of the Kingsguard today. His colors complimented his won sister’s dress of rich emeralds and cloth-of-gold. Sansa herself felt drab among them, clad in full black.

She was mourning the loss of Bran and Rickon. Their deaths had come to her in such shocking news she had taken to bed for a day ill, wanting nothing more than to curl up and die for a time. The only reason she’d roused from bed was because the Hound had stormed in, latched her door, and growled at her that if she didn’t get up Joffrey was like to have one of his men beat her bloody in her room.

_He was protecting me, even if it didn’t seem it._ It was true. Joffrey had wanted to see her, to gloat, had wanted to since she locked herself away. Had she waited much longer, even Margery couldn’t have softened his rage.

That felt so long ago, but she still wore black, in defiance. No one else would mourn the Stark boys, but she would, even if her sadness had ebbed away. She knew she couldn’t mourn forever.

“Well struck Loras!” Margery was calling to her brother, who waved at the ladies. Sansa rested on her palm, bored. These knights didn’t interest her. They were too soft, too young and smooth. She wished the Hound had an excuse to don his armor and teach these children how a real man fought.

_Careful girl, those thoughts will get you in trouble_.

Truth be told, Sansa wanted trouble. She wanted to forget the city and the North and the deaths. She wanted something sweet and hot, like the Hound’s tongue. She found she thought about him more and more with every meeting, even if the few she had stolen with him before Bran and Rickon’s death had been nothing more than feverish kisses, leaving her breathy and pleading for more. Sansa wasn’t sure if he was teasing her on purpose, or if he truly could not escape to her that often. She thought a bit of both.

The sound of heavy hooves broke her from her mind, and Sansa watched as Joffrey rode in, dressed in reds and golds, his guard around him. Margery stood at once and left her girls to rush over to him, greet him from his ride. Sansa wanted to retch. _Let the fool dot on him, she knows what he is now, just as you do_.

Feeling bitter suddenly, Sansa left the gaggling women and walked briskly away, off towards the stables. She’d rather enjoy the company of horses.

“You’re in some hurry, girl.”

Sansa turned just as she reached the stables, eyes meeting the Hound’s black eyes. She turned around fully, stepped back carefully until her back rested against the building, feeling her heart racing. It always raced when he spoke to her now, betraying her every desire.

“Horses are better company than them,” she said, jerking her head towards the women in the far distance now. “And I’ve no desire to see _His Grace_ either.”

The Hound chuckled and moved closer, leaning against the building with one arm, engulfing her from the hot sun. She squirmed a bit, pressing herself closer, and his other hand toyed with the neckline of her gown, pressing low against her breasts.

“I don’t like you in black,” he said, leaning in, nuzzling her neck, her hair. She clutched at him, trembled. He hadn’t touched her in what felt like forever.

“I don’t like you in white,” she retorted, still hating his Kingsguard armor. She liked _him_ in black, black as death, black as the Stranger. She liked to be reminded that he was far from some noble knight.

He chuckled and kissed her neck, her ear. “Wear something else later, and I promise I won’t be in white.”

Sansa’s heart froze in her chest. Was he inviting her into the dark of night, after such an absence? She dared to hope, had to remind herself the last few visits had left her aching worse than ever.

“Come to the sept,” he breathed, one of his hands gripping her heavy skirts, slipping beneath, along her thighs. He pressed against her sex, teased her, made her gasp and writhe against him. “After high moon, when the castle sleeps. It’s been too long, little bird.”

Sansa was nodding, being driven made by his hand. Even through her smallclothes, he knew how to touch her perfectly. She pushed closer, her body buzzing from her pent up need, and he kissed her mouth hard, long, delving in with his skilled tongue.

“Not...here,” she was gasping against his lips, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his hair, rub his scars. “They... could see.”

“Bugger the knights and their ladies,” he said, circling her overly sensitive bundle of nerves. “I just want you to _sing_ , little bird.”

Sansa quivered, blushing, so ashamed. It was daylight still, she could still see the figures in the distance of Margery, her ladies, even the king, and yet her she was, letting the Hound touch her most intimate places, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.

He kissed her again, and she gave in to her pleasure, whimpering and moaning brokenly into his mouth as the waves washed over her, pulling on his hair and igniting sparks in his scalp. He growled, something low and feral in his throat, and bit her lip, nearly breaking some of the skin. Sansa shuddered again, her body still calling out to him, the pleasure that had washed over her only serving to drive her further into her need.

But he was pulling away, stopping only to tangle a hand in her thick feiry locks, to pull her head back almost painfully so he could trail his tongue along the white expanse of her throat. Sansa whimpered.

“The sept,” he reminded her, then he was gone, walking off back towards his Kingsguard brothers and that bloody bastard king, leaving Sansa to tremble and whimper to herself, the heat of the day nothing now compared to the heat in her belly and sex.

She had paced her room half the night, had dressed, undressed, redressed. She had left gowns flung around her room, only having the wit at the very end to stuff them away, hide the evidence of her nerves. He hadn’t wanted her in black, and she listened, but wanted now to impress him, to make his eyes roam her and try to delve into her skin, hungry.

Her gown was a rich maroon, hugging her breasts in a low neckline. It was silken to the touch, so much so that in her nervous state she would stroke the skirts, her sleeves, trying to occupy her fingers.

Finally, when the moon was high and bright, she slipped into her cloak- the only black she dare wear- and slipped from her room. She tried to walk slowly, calmly, but it was hard, and often when she saw no one in her path, Sansa nearly ran. Her steps made soft sounds on the stones, especially as she walked up the steps to the sept. It was an extremely dark night, and in the distance she heard thunder. Her prayers for the heat to break may be answered after all.

She pushed the large doors to the sept open and stepped in. The only light was from low burning candles, left from prayers earlier in the evening. At this hour, it stood deserted, quiet. Sansa walked around the exterior, stopping by the Maiden to bow her head.

“Even she can’t help you now, little bird.”

Sansa turned quickly, her entire body facing the voice she knew so well. She pulled her hood down as the Hound stepped from the shadows, lit only by a few dying candles, casting an orange glow to him. He stood opposite her, by the Stranger’s statue.

“She doesn’t need to help me,” Sansa said, “I’m still a maid.” He laughed at that, and Sansa frowned. “It’s true!”

“Aye, you’re still a maid, but you’re no proper lady. Come here.” Sansa obeyed, walking across the sept to him, right into his arms. He had listened to her request and shed his Kingsguard armor, was clad in pure black. Sansa fisted her hands in his tunic and kissed him, let him peel the cloak from her body. She had wanted to ask him to take her away, back to his chambers, but she hadn’t been able to wait. _Just one kiss, than we can leave_.

He grasped her hips, one hand gripping her bottom, making Sansa gasp. She clawed at him, one hand reaching up to tangle in his hair, to keep his lips from leaving her. He let her hold her control for a moment, before he grabbed her and lifted her up, turning her around and setting her on the alter before the Stranger. His fingers played with some of her gown, and a smirk grew on his face, twisting his scars.

“Better than black,” he said, and without hesitating, ripped the dress with his strong hands right down the middle. Sansa cried out softly, felt the air settling on her bare breasts. He had ripped the dress all the way down her navel.

“ _Ser_ , there’s no way I can leave now!” She tried to cover herself, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. Possibly the eyes of the Seven staring at her from their statues.

The ruined corner of his lip twitched, and she saw the annoyance flicker in his eyes. “Bugger your _sers_. I never said we were leaving, girl.”

_Surely he doesn’t mean to leave me with just a kiss again._ “But... but I _want_ you,” Sansa said, her voice straining, her cheeks flushing. “You _can’t_ just leave me again.”

He kissed her, his hands fisting in her fiery hair, pulling on it. “I’m not,” he whispered against her lips, voice hoarse and raspy, “I’m taking you right here, little bird.” His hands tore at her dress more, pulling it down her arms, down her hips, his hand delving between them-

And pressing against her fiery curls, her slick sex. He pulled back, stared at her, expected one more layer of cloth to separate him from Sansa’s sex. She gave him a smile, tinged at the ends with a smirk, and he felt his cock straining furiously against his breeches.

“You wicked girl,” he said, teasing her, and Sansa sighed at his touch, pushed her hips towards it.

“They only got in the way earlier,” she whispered of her absent smallclothes, “I...I thought you might like this.”

He pressed a finger into her, made Sansa cry out, and leaned down, lips and teeth and tongue exploring her chest. Oh, she had no idea how _much_ he liked it.

Sansa felt like he was stroking the very core of her being, even though the Hound was careful to only go so far- careful of that damned maidenhead she held so bloody dear. Someday he’d tear through it, make her scream and writhe with his cock held tight between her thighs. _Some bloody day_.

Sansa was squirming still, clinging to the cold stone of the alter. He meant to keep her _here_ , to play the vile beast in front of the holy seven, in their house of worship. Part of Sansa was sick, but most of her was throbbing and wet and so willing. So be it, let the Seven see her and judge her as she was.

He pulled away from her and Sansa whimpered, only to watch him strip in the low light. His eyes were roaming over her, taking her in as he couldn’t the other night, the way her skin glowed in the dim orange light, the rosy tips to her breasts and the fire between her thighs.

Sansa pulled her shoulders back, bared her chest and spread her shaking thighs more. The way he looked at her made her stomach knot, made her cheeks and breasts pink and hot. He groaned, ripped his tunic off and tossed it aside, gave her a glimpse of that hard chest she had felt in the dark. He kicked his boots away, and nearly tore the lacing on his breeches. In a breath he was just as naked as her.

Sansa fought her gaze, kept her eyes on his rippled abdomen, chewed on her lower lip. _A lady wouldn’t stare_ she reminded herself, and the struggle on her face must have been apparent because he was laughing again. He closed the gap between them, kissed her, his tongue claiming her mouth.

“You look like a scared girl,” he said, one of his hands returning between her thighs to tease her. She whimpered, managed to frown.

“I’m not _scared_ ,” she said, “just... it wouldn’t be proper.”

“It’s not proper to see my cock, but you touch it just fine. Stupid little bird.” She flushed more, tried to squirm away, but slipped and only pushed closer to his hand.

_He’s not wrong, though. I am being stupid_.

Sansa closed her eyes, felt him press against her, felt his manhood against her thighs. She shivered, one of her hands tracing along his shoulders, his chest, trembling as she tried to go further. Before she could he was pulling on her, lifting her up into his arms and holding her tight as he settled down on the alter himself. She spilled from his arms to the floor, landed with a gentle thud, and sat up, eyes snapping open.

He leaned back on the alter, his arms resting on the raised ledges were candles would have burned, had they not been below the Stranger. It was like a simple throne, and Sansa bit her lip, swearing she was staring at a king, a _god_.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he said, “until you get rid of those girlish ideas. Prove to me I should touch me.”

Sansa stared, leaning on her hands. Her eyes delved over his chest, his abdomen, and holding her breath, further down, to the black curls at his groin, to his manhood, stiff and resting against his stomach. Sansa felt her breathing growing quick, her thighs impossibly wet. She wanted him to touch her, but suddenly, more so, she wanted to touch _him_.

Sansa closed the small gap between them, steadied herself on her knees, her hands trailing up and down his thighs. He watched her, said not a word, gave no clue to what he was thinking. Just watched with those near black eyes and those lips. Her finger tips brushed along a scar on his leg, and she bent her head, kissed it gently. She followed his leg up with her mouth, along his hip, tongue tracing a scar that slashed along his side and part of his stomach. She felt his breath rush out of him.

Closing her eyes to gather her strength, her other hand reached up, wrapped around the base of his cock and stroked him, as she had in the black of night in his chambers. She darted her Tully blue eyes to look at him, but he was just watching her, intrigued, and though she could feel his breathing growing faster with her strokes, he held his tongue and made not a sound.

Frustrated, Sansa leaned back, and did the only thing she could think to do. Try to kiss him, as he had her. She leaned forward, her lips ghosting over the head of his cock, before she ran her tongue down along the underside, stopping at the base to hear him exhale quickly, a curse barely spoken. Confidence rising, she traced her tongue back up, swirled it around the head, felt him shudder.

“What should I do?” she asked, her free hand gripping his thigh.

“Swallow me.”

And Sansa tried. She opened her mouth and took him in, as far as she could, her hand working along the base of his manhood to make up for what couldn’t fit in her small mouth. His hand buried in her hair and helped guide her, his groans growing louder in the still of the sept. Sansa dug her nails into his thigh as her own excitement was building, and she squirmed, rubbing her thighs together, wishing for friction against her sex.

Sansa heard the Hound cursing loudly, his hand wrenching from her hair, trying to move her head away. She reached up, tangled her fingers with his, and swallowed him deeper, felt a quaking shudder pass through him and heard him growl her name over and over again into the dark as he spilled his seed in her mouth. Sansa swallowed it down without thought, tasting a bitterness that wasn’t unpleasant.

She had barely released his cock from her mouth when he was grabbing her, pulling her up onto his lap. She straddled his hips and kissed him as he held her firm, devoured her mouth. She could feel the heat emanating from his body, let her slick sex grind against his.

He could take her then, the Hound knew. She was feverish with need, her nails digging into his skin, her cunt ready for him. Yes, he could take her, and she wouldn’t say no.

_But not just yet._

Instead he brought his hands between them, circled around her nub until Sansa was a whimpering mess of nerves on his lap, shaking and trembling, so close. He stood then, lifting her, and set her back on the alter, kneeling before her.

“Tell me,” he said, “what you want, little bird.”

“Kiss me,” she whimpered, and he knew she did not mean her mouth. Still, playing cruel and coy, he kissed her cheek, let his scars scrap her skin deliciously. She cried out in frustration.

“Tell me where.”

“Be-between my thighs,” she breathed, and he obeyed, kissing each inner thigh, but not where she wanted. She tossed her head, and he watched the fire erupt in her air, glowing hot in the low candle light. “Please _ser_ -“

“Use my name,” he commanded, “and tell me _exactly_ where you want my mouth.”

He loved the turmoil in her eyes, the desire pressing hard against her restraint. He’d smash all of it, grind his heel into any restraint she had left by the time he was done teaching Sansa Stark all she had to learn. Just in time for her to be whisked away-

_Think on that another time_.

“Please, Sandor,” she breathed, and the air grew still and the night silent around them, before thunder crashed in the distance, and rain could be heard pelting the stones.

“Where do you want my mouth?” he asked again, fingers digging into her thighs as thunder crashed again.

“My cunt,” she pleaded, and he obeyed her like a good hound. He pressed his lips and tongue to her, moved in just the way she wanted, the way he had set to memory from the first time he’s tasted her sweet honey. He drank of her like a dying man in the desert, until she screamed his name into the thunder, to the Seven around her, and shook, flooding his mouth anew.

Sansa collapsed back against the feet of the Stranger, her own god of death crawling up from between her thighs to kiss her, mingle the taste of her pleasure with his. Sansa clutched at him weakly, spent and exhausted, content in the cool dark, in his arms.

This time he did not chase her off right away. He slid onto the alter, lifted her to his lap, let her nuzzle into him, snuggle like a kitten. He stroked her hair, and had she the right of mind, she would have mused at how gentle he had turned so suddenly.

“I don’t want to go back,” she was murmuring against his skin, “I’d rather stay here.”

“Think of the sight you’d make,” he said, “when the septon and all those buggering praying folk come in at dawn. Naked and splayed by the Stranger, they’ll claim the damned god raped you.”

Sansa shook her head. _No, he didn’t take me unwillingly. He didn’t take me._ She kissed his chin, his scars, over his cheek and down onto his neck. _My Stranger_.

Her dress was ruined, and Sansa knew she’d have to have some excuse should a maid find it. Still, she slipped into it, though it left her navel completely exposed, and her breasts as she moved. Her cloak would keep her hidden until she reached her room, she just had to pray that no one stopped her. She tied it tightly as the Hound was dressing, then walked away from him, across the sept to the statue of the Maiden. She took one of the long burning candles and walked back, carefully lighting a few around the Stranger.

The Hound watched as she blew the Maiden’s candle out though, as her eyes looked over at him, so blue and clear. They had a constant, throbbing hunger in them, one clearer than he had ever seen. By the time he was done with her, whoever the lucky bastard was that got her for his wedding night would be praising the Seven for such a lively woman.

The Hound gritted his teeth, burying those thoughts. Bugger every other man in the Kingdom, until someone ripped her away, she was his little bird, and only his. And he’d take everything from her, every kiss and cry and begging whisper, and leave noting for the poor bastard that came after him.

He pulled his own hood up and kept an arm around her waist, guiding her out into the rainy night. He dared to walk her close to her tower, but not into it.

“Pray for me tonight,” she said, her hands ghosting under his cloak as she kissed him goodbye.

“Bugger the gods, they don’t exist-“ his breath hitched in his throat as she grasped him through his breeches, stroking him softly.

“No,” she said, “pray with your hand, and wish that it was my mouth again.”

And then she was gone, escaping him into the warmth of her tower, her chambers. Any light of the Maiden left in her was snuffed out, and she burned with a dark light that made the Hound smirk and turn away, vowing to do exactly as she had bid him.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, happy Sunday everyone! There's going to be at least one more story for this series. Maybe two- I'm not sure yet. I could probably even push it to three. We'll see! I promise all our frustration will be worth it "soon".


End file.
